


Unbecoming readings.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Humor, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, No Strings Attached
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cambridge graduate delves into forbidden literary territory. OFC is there to save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbecoming readings.

It is through a lifelong, most dear connexion, whose quarters of downtime interim dwelling I am residing at the moment, that I have made my acquaintance to the man in cause, sitting cross-legged across the wide living room, perusing a tattered volume of whatever barely passable as mediocre erotica literature of our host’s wife’s personal selection – the pleasures of which I, more often than typically deemed sensible, unashamedly succumb to myself – a look of officious disapproval fighting the reasonable urge to be either excited or amused by the offending text. By both name and virtue a veritable aristocrat with an education most becoming of his societal standing, although the gracious humility of regarding his own self in no way preferable to the one next to him, the tension in his intended ease of posture is evident to the simple astuteness of the commonly observant folk – the man abhors being seen in the possession of such an indelicate expression of human intellect, which, for the latent intellectual turgidity of any and all Cambridge alumni, is, in all fairness, understandable. Tom Hiddleston shan’t, under any circumstance, be seen ever so studiously reading the vile content of eighties literature, and my being in the same room with him, accidental witness to said transgression, but highly entertained, and, albeit still unbeknownst to him, participant in it, appears to be, by the look of his mortified visage as he stares back at my barely upheld composure, perilous to his image and potentially his life.

“So Sandra Brown, huh?”

My resounding remark, sharp in tone and subtext all the same, is met with no response other than a silence of the gravest quality, a betrayal of contemplative undecidedness, of appropriation of the most befitting lexical resources into providing a potent justification for the infraction. The mockingly condescending but fundamentally emphatic curl of my lips is imminent.

“I wank off to Sandra Brown, Tom. Get your head out of your pretty ass.”

His whole body sags redemptively, “You do, huh?”

“Of course.”

“What else?”

“What else what?”

“What else do you wank off to?”

“What should I answer to that?”

“The truth.”

“You.”

Perhaps it is for the omnipresent guilt trips my parents would inflict on me as a still young child having been caught lying, or the acquirement of fairly prudent scruples to govern my quintessential anima, but having the truth out in the open, even at the prospect of the complete depletion of what could have been a friendly association with what _People_ magazine called _The World’s Most Eligible Bachelor_ (whatever happened to Prince Harry), remains, to this day in my very much adult life, a felicity I am most susceptible to. And the look in his eyes – the surprise, the realisation, the self-important vanity in his smirk.

“Me.”

It’s not a bit for validation as it is a conclusion. It leaves no room for alterations, oozing decisiveness.

“You.”

Seemingly, Mrs. Brown’s done her job properly as, raising from the sofa, book falling to the floor, his sweatpants tent at the crotch. Unabashed, he closes the space between us and reaches around, pulling down on my ponytail.

“How dare you, you worthless whore, how dare you debase me in such a way,” his whisper bites into my ear, harsh and firm, and my fresh underwear becomes not so fresh anymore, imbibed with warm desire, uncomfortably teasing my now fully receptive crotch.

What an unexpected twist of events.

Not one to back down from engaging in any sort of play that could lead to prospectively blissful coitus, I adopt what I would like to believe could be described as, precisely as he put it, _worthless whore_ facial expression, intended both to arouse and enrage – there’s docility in my eyes, but my lips are salaciously curved, ever so slightly, as if I were reticent in expressing my sexual depravity and the perverted urges that had me on so many occasions being fucked by men I barely knew, in places obscure to say the least, uninhibitedly vociferous, eloquent in my begging, to the egotistical satisfaction of whomever happened to be inside me.

Perceptive as one capitalising from the craftsmanship of portraying human nature in all its forms, Tom doesn’t disappoint in correctly deducting my history of debasing prurience, inquiring, before any of the said play would commence, about my safewords, repeating them several times himself, testing.

Not too long of a while lapses before I am on the floor, cheek resting on the cool parquet, and him, behind me, working a knot with the sash of his day robe around my wrists, not tight enough to bruise, but firm, immobile. Under the command that I am, under no circumstance, to exercise my locomotive abilities, he walks around me – I can only see his feet from where I am – but his steps feel somehow tentative, as if he were inspecting me, figuring out what more he could do to improve my performance as, basically, a human fucktoy. As there are no longer clothes on me, my excitement is literally pooling on the floor, wetting my thighs as it slides from my throbbing insides, through the moist folds of my cunt, ready to be opened and filled.

Blindfolding, due to its omnipresence in the BDSM scene, has, to me, become somewhat of a means of security, and that is why I almost squeal (but refrain, as I’m probably going to bet seriously bitch slapped if I do) my excitement when I see him crouching over me and adjusting me as to accommodate its application. Then, with a short grunt the fact is established – fit to match his preferences and my relative comfort, I am ready to be fucked.

“Now tell me, sweetheart, tell me about what happens when you think of me.”

Peculiar choice of an appellative, as opposed to name calling, but there’s this absolute condescension to it that somehow delineates our existences as being from entirely different castes, and I am compelled to answer truthfully yet again, a crude confession of my misdemeanours, which he completes with sporadic sounds of agreement, calm and understanding.

Until the rage takes over, that is, and my rear end is assaulted in the most painfully delicious way possible, then left red and sore, marked by the strength of his large palm, a gentle caress and then the powerful hit, short and electrifying, only to be prolonged by yet another caress, then another hit, and so on and so forth, until I am left limp on the floor, panting and in tears, obediently expecting my compensation, some good inches of bliss, girth comfortably sliding in.

There is no orgasm at the end on my part (again, strict orders against release) but sometimes a nice pounding and a prolonged sesh of kissing and watching shitty sitcoms wrapped in soft sheets is just enough for a gal to have a fun time.

**Author's Note:**

> I fell asleep, forgetting that I have to upload…
> 
> Red needs to get her shit together stat. In RL it’s becoming almost life threatening. 
> 
> I probably will, at some point in my life, but now is not the time.
> 
> Uhm, yeah. Moving on.
> 
> THANK YOU GUYS (all of you) FOR THE FEEDBACK ON GENDER ROLES, THAT WAS ABSOLUTELY FANTASTIC AND SO FLUFFY IM GONNA DIEEE.
> 
> *takes a second to catch her breath*
> 
> Okay, Red, chill the fuck out, you overexcited bitch. You can do this shit.
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading, hope you enjoyed. There’s going to be a more explicit part two to this little story, which I hope I’ll get done over the weekend.
> 
> Again, thank you all for reading, lovelies, you stay golden *serves ice-cold lemonade to all of you guys, because it’s hot as fuck outside*


End file.
